AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Die, get sick, hurt yourself in some way. Drive your car to the edge of a cliff. Contemplate driving off. And send your agent scary text messages about the end of your life and to make sure your husband sees the royalties from your books.”
I chewed on my lip. Yeah, that incredibly specific story had—surprise, surprise—happened once. During my revision phase of the second book I’d ever gotten published.
“Listen, Jem,” Meghan said. “I know I was a little harsh on you during our last conversation—”
“Does that mean I can kill the dad?” I grinned.
“No. I still want you to save him. Just… take it easy. Remember what I always say. No book is worth killing yourself over. Okay? Let me hear you tell me something then, so that I can get on with my day and not be worried sick about you. What are you doing after you’re done shopping?”
“Going the eff home and getting some sleep,” I said, so tired my brain almost didn’t register my environment around me any longer. Little flecks of white light, which shouldn’t have been there, floated in the distance above my line of sight.
“Okay, good. I’ve gotta get back to work. We’ll talk again soon.”
With that, she hung up. For an instant, a pang of sadness crept through me. A part of me wanted her to stay on the line. To talk to me more about how I was feeling about so many things. But it wasn’t like I expected that from her or anybody else.
Truthfully, on top of everything else, the idea of opening up to somebody brought me guilt and shame. I didn’t want to burden anybody or take anymore of their time than I had to. I was also fearful of what truly opening up to somebody would do. The vulnerable position I’d place myself by bearing my soul with another.
Nobody could understand this crazy brain of mine.
A fleeting thought of Jamie passed through my mind. How would Meghan react to hearing about something like that? I cringed at the idea of telling her. Aside from my moment on the cliff, I didn’t usually discuss my private things with her. As kind as Meghan always was, I couldn’t ever be completely forthcoming with my emotional issues.
Meghan had been with me through the first book, seven years ago now, the golden time of being a debut author when you have no other books of yours to live up to. I’d been on book tours for a year during the first release, reached bestsellers lists, and had articles written about me, listing me as an upcoming author who was sure to live up to other notable writers in the young adult genre.
Needless to say, with the literary success came an enormous amount of pressure.
By the second book, five years ago, I started coming down from the high I had during the release of the first book. It wasn’t just that I needed to write another bestseller. And in half the time, too. No, it was also that my personal goal was to surpass the quality and success of the first book. I pushed myself to an unhealthy extreme. Staying up for days at a time, editing or cutting words I’d written and crafting new ones. I nitpicked the living fuck out of that second book.
One night, delirious from lack of sleep and worried that everything I was writing was nothing but a bunch of shit, I drove over an hour to Mt. Hood. Played that Gilbert O’Sullivan song—"Alone Again (Naturally)”—on repeat through my car stereo.
I parked my car right at the edge of a cliff. And I waited there for hours. After I texted Meghan, she somehow got in contact with Dave who drove up to meet me and talk me down from the ledge—pun very much intended.
“What do you think it would do to me, if you weren’t around?” Dave had said, tears in his eyes as he sat in the passenger seat. The noise from the engine continued in the background. I stared over the scenery, the long drop below, full of Douglas firs and western red cedar trees.
Dave convinced me not only to take a break from the book but to spend a week in a psychiatric ward. Once my nerves settled and I left the hospital—two weeks later—Meghan called me daily until the completion of the second book.
“No book is worth losing your life,” Meghan used to say on these calls. “Get what you can done. But don’t kill yourself over it.”
She became my motivational speaker. Always calling to not only encourage me about the book, but also to remind me to, you know, do things like eat and sleep. It was during the writing of the second book that our agent/client relationship turned into more of a friendship.
I pushed the cart down the frozen foods aisle and shivered, unsure of whether it had anything to do with the temperature or everything to do with remembering my crazy, fucked up life.
I always had people in my life who cared, I realized. Just no one who really understood the messed-up thoughts and feelings which haunted my every waking moment. No one who was capable of discussing things in depth the way I would’ve wanted.
Over the years, I noticed that people liked to try to help me. But they thought that asking me how I was doing was enough. Or getting someone or something else to help me was satisfactory. Stays in psychiatric wards. Drugs (Paxil). Therapists. More drugs (Xanax). It wasn’t enough.
It wasn’t a cure.
I didn’t know what could ever be enough for me—what could ever cure me from the deep, unpleasant, unsettled and hollow shell I’d become.
I simply didn’t connect with anyone.
The thing was, you could have a million people next to you but still feel lonelier than ever if you weren’t able to connect with any of them.
Sooner or later, people realized this about me.
Then they gave up and left.
Chapter Thirty
